


oh there it is again, sitting on my chest (makes it hard to catch my breath)

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Series: all that glitters [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 2014-15 Grand Prix of Figure Skating Series, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Bitty just chill please?, Coming Out, Epikegster, Figure Skater Eric "Bitty" Bittle, I will write y'all a sex scene even if it kills me, Injury, M/M, The Irresistable Lure of the Quadruple Lutz, please?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: Eric Bittle has high hopes for his first semester at Samwell. He's going to come out to his parents, win another gold, and find some way to scrub Kent Parson out of his skin.He wishes he could say that it was just the last one which tripped him up.





	oh there it is again, sitting on my chest (makes it hard to catch my breath)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while. Sorry, guys. This fic spans the entirety of Bitty's first semester at Samwell (though the first chapter mostly deals with the summer beforehand), which aligns pretty neatly with the 2014-15 Grand Prix of Figure Skating (big competition, happens in the first half of figure skating season, just below Worlds in prestige). It's currently planned for three chapters, but who knows how long it'll end up being.

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Apr 9   
I’m going to miss this place. #bostonbound #solongsocal

[IMAGE: A group of skaters posing outside the East West Ice Palace in Artesia, California. Bitty is at the centre, throwing up a peace sign.]

\--

Figure skating is not a kind sport. At Eric’s level, there are not many sports that are, but figure skating – figure skating is a sport that starts off cruel. It is unforgiving, and it is vindictive, and it takes your prepubescent body and twists it into deformed feet and phantom bruises.

There are no soft landings in figure skating. Hitting the ice hurts, no matter how many times it happens, no matter how it happens. Eric can still remember the first time he fell, tripping over his toe pick before he ever even attempted a jump, and he remembers the way the impact made his very bones feel as if they had been shaken out of place.

But after that – he remembers getting up. He remembers standing on uncertain legs, remembers finding his balance again, remembers skating on. He remembers that when he fell learning the waltz jump, a few lessons later, it didn’t feel nearly half as bad.

And that’s figure skating: you fall, but you get up, and you do it again. There’s no question about whether or not you stay on the ice. You get up, and you skate on, because it won’t be so bad next time. It won’t.

Now how’s that for a lie?

\--

**April 26, 2014**

Eric wakes up with a pair of lips trailing down his naked back. He can feel sunlight from the open curtains spilling down onto his bare skin, his body boneless and warm. A smile breaks through on his face as he rolls over.

The kisses drift lower.

Last night gets a little blurry in Eric’s memory after the fifth tequila shot Jeremy pushed his way. He remembers that he lost his shirt at some point, and he definitely remembers grinding with a tall, dark, and handsome ice dancer when Beyoncé came on, but he doesn’t remember who it was who pulled him away from the crowd and the throbbing beat of the music, and pushed him against his hotel room door, every touch electrifying and exciting.

Eric opens his eyes to the sight of blond hair. His stomach flips. “Kent?”

The kisses stop. “Who the hell is _Kent_?”

Eric’s blood freezes in his veins. “I—” Mortification mixes with nausea in his gut as his bed-partner pushes away from him. The morning sun splays across his clean-shaven face, and Eric knows all too well why he let this man take him to bed last night, the similarities as stark in daylight as they must have been in that darkened club.

“Seriously,” the guy says. Eric doesn’t even know his _name_. “Who the hell is Kent?”

The nausea peaks. Eric shoves away from him, legs unsteady as he bolts to the bathroom, and crashes down in front of the toilet. He retches, and it all comes out.

“Look,” comes a voice from the doorway.

Eric turns, still stuck on the floor by the toilet, but he doesn’t get more than the briefest of looks at his one night stand before another wave of nausea hits him.

“Last night was fun, and all,” the guy says, “but I’m just going to—I’m going to go.”

Eric hears the door of his hotel room click shut. He closes the lid of the toilet, and rests his forehead on it.

God, he’s such a disaster. _Kent._ What the fuck would Kent be doing in Pittsburgh? The Aces and the Penguins don’t even play in the same conference, not to mention the fact that the Pens got knocked out weeks ago.

Eric sighs. He makes himself stand up, and flushes the toilet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His hair is a mess, and he has a ring of hickeys around his neck. He looks like he’s been put through the wringer, and then pulled back around and put through it again.

_Olympic Champion, huh,_ he thinks. _Yeah, you’re doing just **great**._

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Apr 25   
Can’t believe that tonight is my last performance with @starsonice! Eight shows in eight cities and all of them have been a blast!

\--

Eric still isn’t used to being recognised by people, though he knows it’s only going to get worse. Men’s figure skating isn’t all that big in the US – the sport is, by and large, populated by rich, white heiresses reeled in by the glamour of it all – but Eric’s Olympic win was just the right brand of unexpected and downright impressive to attract a fair share of media attention.

It’s unnerving, in all honesty. Growing up in the figure skating world, Eric has become somewhat used to the small time brand of celebrity that competitive skaters are. He’s a niche interest; of course there are fans who scream his name and shyly approach him for autographs, but to most people he’s just another nobody, a face on the train that fades into the background. He _likes_ feeling invisible most of the time. It’s always been the best kind of protection.

It’s not working anymore. Sitting in Pittsburgh Airport, sunglasses shielding his red-rimmed eyes from the world, Eric doesn’t feel like a nobody. He’s the man strangers take unsubtle photos of, or the one they point quietly at as they ask each other in audible whispers if it’s really him. He’s the man that gets told not only to have a pleasant flight by the attendant, but also, “And congratulations on your Olympic Gold, Mr Bittle.”

Eric closes his eyes and lets the world slip away from him.

Once, a few years ago, Eric had watched a documentary on the 1980 Miracle on Ice with his mother. Not much had stuck, but he remembers the fact that they were all college kids, and that a fair few of them left the sport behind completely when they graduated. It hadn’t made sense to him back then, that they would throw away something as amazing as an Olympic Gold Medal for a career as an accountant, but it does now. Life doesn’t stop just because you’re Olympic Champion. Nothing fundamental about you changes. It’s amazing – it won’t ever not be amazing – but it doesn’t somehow make you worth _more_.

Landing in Boston doesn’t feel like coming home. Logan International Airport feels as strange and alien to him as Pittsburgh did, just as bustling and hostile. Eric collects his baggage, heaving the heavy suitcase off the carousel with significant effort. When he first flew out to Newark to join the _Stars on Ice_ tour, the taxi driver that picked him up from the airport had quipped that he should learn to pack light, and Eric very carefully didn’t say that the vast majority of the weight was made up by costumes and skates.

Eric tugs his suitcase through the door to arrivals, and pauses just outside the gate. Somewhere around here should be—

“Eric!”

—Denis.

Denis Boothe is younger than Eric, but not by much, and markedly less mature. He dresses each day like he lives in an 80s fitness video, and faces life with the same compulsory cheer. He’s from Nevada, and like Eric, moved to Boston to train, and he has a poster of Kent Parson on his bedroom wall that Eric likes to pretend doesn’t make his throat close up a little every time he sees it.

“I still can’t believe you were on _Stars on Ice_!” Denis says, pulling Eric’s suitcase out of his hand without any warning. “It was so weird being alone in the apartment, but I bet you got to meet so many cool people, like Meryl Davis, and Charlie White—”

“You do realise I was at the Olympics, right?” Eric asks. “I met them at Sochi.”

“Yes, but this was _Stars on Ice_. It’s different.”

Eric doesn’t really get how.

“I caught a stream of your skate, by the way,” Denis adds. “I liked the hitch kick near the end. It added a little something-something, you know?”

Eric musters a smile from somewhere deep within him. “Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

Denis continues to chatter on, deeply enthusiastic in a way that Eric never once managed, even as a Junior skater. He leads Eric to the car and loads Eric’s baggage in, and as Eric leans his head against the window, he thinks of the way his stomach had swooped in sudden, stubborn hope this morning.

Just keep going, he tells himself. It’ll hurt less next time.

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Apr 30   
The first few days in a new place are always hard, but nothing cures homesickness quite like a good round of baking! #offseasontreats #dietwhatdiet

[IMAGE: A freshly baked peach pie, perfectly proportioned, and cradled in a pair of oven mitts.]

\--

Élodie Durand holds herself the same way Eric’s first ballet instructor did: her back is straight, her chin is tilted distinctly up, and every time she meets Eric’s eyes she makes sure she is looking down her nose at him. She hates him.

It sets Eric’s nerves alight on his good days, the way she looks at him. On his bad ones, he finds himself rounding his shoulders and avoiding her gaze, unable to endure the inevitable confrontation she seems to want. He misses Katya like she was a part of his chest that’s been carved out and burnt into nothing, and he misses his old rink in the same, aching way.

He doesn’t admit to that, though. That feels like some kind of surrender.

The Skating Club of Boston is nice. Most of the staff are nice. The ice is well-maintained. The skaters are nice. It’s almost painful how inoffensive everything is, but it’s not California, and it’s not Katya, and that means it’s not quite enough.

“Your new coach seems…”

Eric sighs, reaching down to brush the ice off his blades. “She doesn’t like me. You can say it – it’s not exactly a secret.”

Naomi grimaces, running a hand through her dark, cloud-like hair. “It’s a new relationship,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “I’m sure you’ll reach an understanding in the coming weeks.”

Eric glances over to where Élodie is stood across the rink. Her arms are crossed and her face is twisted into a scowl of disapproval. Eric has no idea what he did to make her look at him like that, but it sends a jolt of shame up his spine regardless. He looks away.

“The first thing she ever said to me was, ‘You were overscored at Nationals,’” he says. “Not exactly a stellar start.”

Naomi grimaces again, but doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Eric sighs. “I’m sorry about the free skate,” he says. “Élodie was pretty insistent on doing the choreography for that herself.”

He doesn’t mention that he had to fight tooth and nail to get Élodie to let him bring Naomi in for the short program. She’d wanted to turn to the club’s usual choreographer, but he held firm. Naomi choreographed him the programs that won him Olympic Gold, and Eric trusts her implicitly with his skating. He doesn’t want anyone else choosing his steps heading into the next season.

“It is what it is,” Naomi says. She runs a hand through her hair again. “So, you said on the phone that you were looking to bring your base value up this season.”

Eric nods. “The scores on the podium were pretty tight last season, especially at Worlds,” he says. “Not mentioning that Hanyu is going to be gunning for me this season.”

Naomi snorts. “You snatched Olympic Gold from right under his nose,” she says. “I’d be gunning for you, too.”

Eric shrugs.

“What did you have in mind?”

Eric leans back against the boards. “I’ve been training the Lutz-loop combination up again—”

“What about adding another quad?”

Eric freezes. “Two quads?”

“You’re a strong jumper, and stamina has never been an issue for you,” Naomi says. “There’s not really that great a difference between a Lutz in combination with a toe loop and one in combination with a loop, so far as base values go. Another quad is a much more effective way to boost your score.”

“I’m not good with edge jumps,” Eric says. “You’ve seen my quad Sal – there’s a reason I only use it sparingly. It’ll mess with the flow of the program and I really can’t afford to sacrifice PCS, even for another quad.”

“So don’t jump a Salchow, then.”

Like it’s that simple. “And jump what instead?” Eric asks.

Naomi smiles, a wicked, daring thing. “A Lutz,” she says. “Jump a quad Lutz.”

\--

**SUPERLATIVES WITH ERIC BITTLE  
** by Grace McGregor

GM: Best Olympic moment?

EB: Oh, well, this is going to sound bad, but I don’t actually remember all that much from the Olympics. Not because I was drunk! Lord, no, just—it was very intense, and I had to be switched on and focusing every time I practised, and it’s all just one big blur in my head. But there are bits—bits and pieces that I do remember, and one of them is—at the end of my free program, I finish the skate by throwing my arms out and sort of staring down the judges. And at the Olympics, when I did that, it was like someone had suddenly turned the volume in the room up, and I could hear people cheering and clapping, and I saw the stadium on their feet, and I just felt—euphoric. I didn’t even care about gold in that moment, because I was just—spent. And I knew that whatever I had scored, however I placed, I had done everything, given everything I could.

GM: Hardest moment in training?

EB: All of it? [laughs] Uh, that’s a joke. Um, I know that my Axel is considered very consistent these days, but that wasn’t always the case. In fact, when I first started to learn the triple Axel, it was—well it was awful. I just couldn’t manage the rotations. And Katya – my coach – she told me that if I didn’t manage to master the jump, I might as well quit, because without it I would never make it to Seniors. And I thought about it, what would happen if I could never land this jump – I thought about that a lot.

GM: Best jump?

EB: Well, points-wise it’s definitely either the quad toe or the triple Axel, but for me—nothing beats a perfect triple Lutz. Nothing.

GM: Favourite competition?

EB: Gosh, you know what? It’s actually Nationals. I spend so much time skating abroad, in international competitions, and it’s so easy to feel kind of—uh, isolated, I guess, from everyone back in the US. But every year, in January, I fly back to America from wherever I am, and I skate in front of a home crowd and—that’s pretty special.

GM: First endorsement?

EB: Oh goodness, this was a while ago. I must have been about thirteen – I was Junior National Champion – and I think it was for zit cream. I think my mom still has tapes.

GM: Worst habit?

EB: Stress-baking. It’s all well and good if you’re just another high school student, but when you’re training for the World Championships and maintaining a strict diet, it’s a whole realm of temptation you don’t need.

GM: Top sports idol growing up?

EB: Oh Lord, do I have to choose just one? Um, Michelle Kwan, _obviously_. And Shizuka Arakawa, because I fell in love with her Ina Bauer and then in love again when she refused to give up after Worlds in 2005. And – I swear this is the last one – Evgeni Plushenko, because without him I would have never persuaded my coach to let me keep training my Biellmann.

GM: Most fun had at a competition?

EB: So, every other year, there’s this competition called the World Team Trophy. I went for the first time in 2013 and it was the first Senior level competition I’d been to that—where there wasn’t this huge pressure on everyone to break records and win medals. I mean, figure skaters are a competitive bunch, so everyone wanted to win, but at the same time, it was more relaxed. Friendlier. And I thought I was hallucinating when I saw the judges’ hats.

GM: Greatest achievement?

EB: Do you even have to ask? Olympic Gold. No question about it.

\--

Eric Bittle’s love affair with Lutz jumps is as long as it is well-documented.

In Juniors, the triple Lutz was his greatest weapon, a high-scoring jump that he could drop into his programs anywhere, at any time. Even as he slowly mastered the Axel, and then slower still brought himself up to quads, he practised his triple Lutz almost religiously, determined not to let it slip.

He’s been asked about it countless times, and he’s responded to each of those with the same ideas. He loves the complexity of the entry, the depth of the edge it demands, the counterintuitive rotation. He loves the cadence of the jump, the sudden, sharp stop it brings to the motion of the program, the curve and shape of the blade on the ice.

Best of all, though, he loves the way that no-one else can jump a Lutz quite like he can – effortless and clean and wicked fast.

In September, 2011, Brandon Mroz landed the first ratified quadruple Lutz. Eric, in the midst of his Senior debut, watched it happen with wide, hungry eyes. Katya didn’t even flinch.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said. “You do not have time to mess around with new jumps this season. No.”

As the Grand Prix Series wound down, though, Eric missing the final by a disappointingly wide margin, Katya had struck a deal. Top ten at Worlds and, during the next off-season, she would help him learn the quad Lutz.

In retrospect, Eric doesn’t think she expected him to manage it. Or maybe she did, and it was all part of some greater scheme to motivate him. Either way, the silver medal he took at Nationals – and the place as a representative to the World Championships – didn’t feel real. Neither, truthfully, did his final placing: ninth, in the world, at just 16 years of age.

It changed things, more than he wanted to admit. With the pre-Olympic season looming over him, and the expectations building around his future development and what it would mean for Team USA, learning a new quad no longer seemed like a good idea. The practice Eric dedicated to the Lutz was half-hearted at best, and non-existent at worst.

He put it in an exhibition skate, once, and promptly wiped out pretty spectacularly on the landing. He came off the ice burning with shame, and struck the jump from the program almost the next day.

But, Eric isn’t the same skater he was two years ago – he’s not even the same skater he was a year ago. He’s the Olympic Champion. If he doesn’t push the sport forward, pushing at the boundaries of what is normal and what is exceptional, then who will?

He can _do_ this. He wants to do this.

Élodie cuts him off almost immediately. “You don’t need it to win,” she says, arms crossed and face sour. “You and Hanyu are about equal so far as skating skills go, though his spins are slightly better than yours, and you tend to pick up marginally more points in your grades of execution. Adding another quad at this point – and a quad Lutz at that – would be a stupid risk to take.”

“I’ve done it before,” Eric protests. “Fully rotated and everything. Katya and I practised it, off and on, and I wasn’t even half the skater I am today when I learned it.”

“I don’t doubt that you can get round,” Élodie replies, “but landing it is another matter altogether. Quads have harsh penalties for poor execution and, at your level, a fall can cripple a short program. No. I will not debate this with you.”

“Okay, so we don’t put it in the short,” Eric tries, “but what about in the free skate? We could make it the first jump, so fatigue wouldn’t be an issue, and—”

“Eric,” Élodie cuts in, voice hard and unyielding. “When I say something is not up for debate, I mean it. No new quads, and certainly not a Lutz.”

Eric stares at her. He feels small, and foolish, which is _stupid_ , because he’s neither of those things. “I can do it,” he says, one last time.

“No,” Élodie replies.

And that’s that.

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • May 5   
Thanks to everyone who sent me birthday wishes, pics of baked goods, and high quality gifs of me falling on my face during the Olympics :D

\--

Except it’s really not just that, after all.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Denis says. “I can’t believe I _let_ you talk me into this. You aren’t really going to do it, are you?”

Eric elbows Denis hard in the ribs to shut him up and waves genially at the night-duty rink manager.

“Oh God, you are,” Denis says, as soon as they’ve passed him. “This is so stupid. This is the stupidest thing I have ever done. Élodie’s going to kill us. She’s going to murder us both, and then she’s going to freeze our bodies beneath the surface of the ice to serve as a lesson for all her future students. Oh God.”

“Denis, the ice in our rink is less than three inches thick,” Eric says. “That’s not nearly enough space for a dead body.”

“She would _find a way_.”

Eric pushes open the double doors to the rink. “You don’t have to stay and watch, you know,” he points out reasonably. “You can go back to the car and pick me up in an hour’s time if plausible deniability is really that important to you. In fact, next time I can just drive myself.”

“Are you kidding?” Denis sputters. “She’d kill me just as hard if I let you get injured. At least this way I can help you off the ice if you break your leg.”

“I’m not going to break my leg,” Eric says. “It’s not like I’m attempting something that’s never been done before. It’s a quad Lutz, not an Axel. I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s the argument you’re going with?” Denis asks. “‘It’s not a quad Axel’? The jump no-one’s even sure is possible? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Eric looks out at the ice, mirror-smooth and untouched. “I’m reckless, and I’m stubborn,” he says, “and what’s worse, I have an Olympic Gold Medal that says I really am just that good.”

He turns to Denis with a grin. “And I really, really want a quad Lutz.”

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Jun 2   
Music for upcoming season is finalised! My coach vetoed Beyoncé, sadly :(

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Jun 2   
SP is Beethoven’s Tempest Sonata, and FS is Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre. Choreo is by Naomi Dwyer for SP and Élodie Durand for FS.

\--

**June 15, 2014**

The Aces just lost the Stanley Cup Finals.

It’s all over the news, ESPN showing the same images again and again: the New York Rangers celebrating; their captain with the cup, thrusting high it in the air; fans screaming; and Kent Parson, captain of the Las Vegas Aces, as the buzzer sounds, gutted and spent.

Eric hovers over that last photo on his phone for a very long time. It feels like a curved knife, lodged deep in his gut, a painful reminder that Eric was the one who left. Kent has lost weight, and he’s lost his easy charm, but in so many ways he is still the same man who flipped Eric over in bed, and laughed with him, and kissed him.

Eric wants to call him. It’s been months, and it was a glorified one night stand, what they had between them, but Eric _wants_.

He locks his phone screen, and turns back out to the rink. The quad Lutz has been coming quicker than he thought it would; he’s been landing it around 70% of time, and a further 20% of the time he’s managed to stay on his feet with only a slight stumble. If he were working with Katya, he would start trying to integrate it into his programs now.

Eric drifts away from the boards. It’s getting late now, and he’s over the hour he generally restricts these practices to, but he doesn’t feel tired. Over beyond the boards, Denis is napping on one of the benches, though, and Eric isn’t the only one with practice tomorrow.

_One last time,_ he thinks, picking up speed. _One last quad before I call it a night._

He comes hard and fast down centre-ice, turns, and switches to a deep, back outside edge. His toe pick comes down, less of a smash and more of a tap, and he launches into the air. One revolution. Two revolutions. Three revolutions. The peak of the jump. Four revolutions. Touch down, free leg, and finish.

Eric Bittle is not someone who gets to have Kent Parson. He’s not sure he ever really had a chance at that, for all of the smiles and the champagne and the tenderness. But he can have this. He can have gold medals and ridiculous, stupid jumps, and he can have them in spite of his coach, in spite of the world records that sit just out of his reach, and in spite of smirking, magnetic hockey captains.

He exhales.

_Okay,_ he thinks. _Maybe just one more._

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Jun 17   
There’s always a moment in the off-season when you start to wish it was competition season again.

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Jun 17   
Usually around the sixth run-through of the same three steps. #badskatingkills

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Jun 17   
Oh God, that was meant to be #badskatingskills, but honestly, with my coach? Accurate.

\--

Eric measures his breaths carefully, wiping sweat from his forehead as he takes another swig from his water bottle. His legs and thighs are already burning, and he’s still got another hour of practice with Élodie to go.

The worst part of it all, he thinks, leaning against the boards, is that Élodie’s free skate choreography is actually pretty damn good. No – it’s better than pretty damn good. It’s breath-taking, and Eric means that in more than the most literal sense. Eric can already see the way it’ll play out on the ice, a bold and brave dance packed full of movement and expression.

If he can master it, that is.

It’s a challenging layout. Both of the triple Axels are in the second half, along with the second quad, making it slightly more back-loaded than he’s used to. That’s not even mentioning the step sequence, with its rapid-fire series of turns and tricky edge-work that Eric will admit is not his specialty.

“Eric.”

Eric looks up at Élodie, brows raised in unspoken question.

Élodie meets his gaze the same way she does everything else: unflinchingly. “I have to go and talk to some people in the front office,” she says. “I won’t be gone more than fifteen minutes. Work on the entry into the first jump whilst I’m away – and don’t even think about trying to jump the full thing. Mark it with a single.”

“Got it,” Eric says.

Élodie looks him up and down, lips turned down in what is undoubtedly disapproval, before nodding to herself and walking away. Eric watches her retreating back with a frown of his own.

He really doesn’t know why she doesn’t like him. Is that – is that an arrogant thing to think? Of course he’s not universally likeable, but usually the reason quite quickly becomes evident. And Eric knows that Élodie’s not like this with her other skaters, or at least not to the same degree.

He sighs and pushes off from the boards. Enough about Élodie – there’s not much he can do about that now, no matter how it eats at him.

The first jumping pass in the program is a quad toe that feels like it comes out of nowhere. Eric’s not in the habit of telegraphing his jumps, but he’s also not in the habit of sandwiching a jump that requires as much height as a quad between so much delicate footwork. Loss of speed entering into the jump is going to be an issue if he can’t get the turns and edge changes down.

Eric has the feeling he’s going to be spending a lot of time falling on his ass in the coming weeks.

He pushes away from centre ice to an imaginary music cue, gathers speed, and enters into the first part – a walley jump. A turn. Another turn. One last – and into the toe loop.

And, again.

And again, and again, and again, and again.

He looks up and around the rink. Élodie still isn’t back.

_I wonder…_ Eric thinks, then almost immediately dismisses the idea. He’s not about to stick his poorly-mastered quad Lutz on the tail end of that mess of a transition.

He looks around the rink once more. Still no Élodie.

But then again, it’s not like there’s anyone here to see him mess up.

Okay, fuck it. He’ll pare down the transition, only use the last two turns, and if he falls on his face, then so be it.

Eric circles back around the ice, coming to a stop at the centre and falling into his starting position. Gaze dropped, legs crossed, arms loose. He inhales, imagines the music cue, and pushes off.

His first turn is embarrassingly sloppy, and he loses a lot of momentum to the edge change, but the second turn is smoother, and his edge is deep enough that he goes for the jump regardless. His toe pick comes down, and he launches into the air, turning, turning, turning—

—and falling.

Eric hits the ice with a dull thudding sound that he can feel in his teeth. _Ouch._

Okay, he admits that that was stupid. Cool, but stupid. He should have bailed out of the jump the moment he realised he’d bungled the first turn.

He groans as he pushes himself up off the surface of the rink, brushing the ice shavings off his pants. There’s nothing quite like wiping out on a quad, something Eric has become intimately familiar with once more over the past few weeks. He straightens up, and freezes.

Élodie is standing by the boards, face like thunder and body held like an executioner. She doesn’t need to say anything for Eric to know that she saw all of that, including enough of the beginning of the jump to place it as a Lutz.

She beckons him over silently.

Eric swallows, body still aching from the fall, and skates over to her.

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Jun 18   
#figureskaterproblems when random strangers gasp in horror at your bruises #morebruisethanskin #ow

\--

Élodie doesn’t burn hot in anger, and it unsettles Eric far more than it would if she did. She’s a quiet, stewing sort of furious, eyes narrowing and lips tightening, but never so much as raising her voice. It sets Eric on edge, permanently on high alert, waiting for an explosion that never comes.

She bans him from the rink after hours – not unexpected, to be honest – and chews Denis out during strength training, and… that’s it. She’s disdainful and contemptuous during their sessions together, but it’s a barely noticeable escalation against her previous attitude towards him.

All in all, it sort of feels like an under-reaction, and Eric can’t relax enough to be relieved about that.

\--

**anonymous asked:** hey i’m pretty new to figure skating (basically only got into it over the summer, so i just missed the olympics lol) and i was wondering who your favourite skaters are?

**nightmare-vegetables answered:**

hi! welcome to the club!

as for my favourite skaters, that’s a tough one because a lot of them ended up retiring after the olympics. my two hardcore faves used to be daisuke takahashi and yuna kim, but both of them announced their retirement after the olympics. at his peak, i also liked evgeni plushenko, but if the olympics showed anything it’s that he’s past his prime and imho he wouldn’t have gotten the scores he got if he didn’t have his legacy behind him.

for ladies, i like mao asada a lot. her triple axel is badass, and her comeback during the free skate at the olympics honest to god made me _cry_. on the other hand, i’m not nearly as enamoured with yulia lipnitskaya as tumblr seems to be – it’s very easy, i think, to be a good jumper when you are young and light and strong, and i have serious doubts as to the longevity of lipnitskaya’s career. i do also follow a couple of american ladies, but i’m still bitter about the bullshit with mirai nagasu and the usfsa.

for men’s, my favourite skater is probably javier fernandez. call it latent patriotism on my part, or whatever, but he’s also undeniably one of the most fun, most charming skaters competing today. his programs always, always end up making me smile. and while we’re on the subject of borser’s protégés, yuzuru hanyu is also up there on my list, but he’s become a bit overhyped lately, and it’s soured how i look at him a bit. yeah, he’s good (world records are world records for a reason) but he’s not _that_ good.

i’m also not that big a fan of patrick chan, either. i mean, he has top tier skating skills, but idk sometimes he ends up looking a bit wooden? it’s something about his arms. and that’s not even mentioning his rather lacklustre showing at the olympics, tho i guess it would be cruel to hold that against him, given that he was not alone there. (jesus, what a splatfest that free was.)

and i guess after talking about the other two names on the podium at the olympics, i should mention eric bittle, our reigning olympic and world champion. uggggggggghhhhhh. tbh i don’t really know how to feel about ol’ bittle. (or young bittle, i guess.) i’ve seen the usual wank about him being over-scored, but if you ask me he was probably the _only_ men’s skater at the olympics who actually skated like he was, you know, at the fucking olympics. he’s a notoriously clean skater with immense fluidity and flexibility (much like hanyu, he has a full biellmann, which is a whole world of impressive on its own), and his jumping technique is very, very refined. but there’s just something _off_ about his programs – i watch, and i feel more than anything that they should take my breath away, which is why it is so deeply disconcerting that they don’t. he lacks that sense of rhythm and musicality that skaters like tatsuki machida bring to their programs, and it all ends up looking a little… hollow.

does that answer your question?

thanks for asking!

ask nightmare-vegetables a question #anon #veggie talks #still not over dai’s retirement TT

\--

**facedownspreadeagle**

CONFIRMED: Eric will be skating in the US Collegiate Championships AND the US Classic this season. He will also represent Team North America at the Japan Open. He does NOT plan to compete in the Four Continents, as he wants to use that time to prepare more fully for Worlds.

source: facedownspreadeagle #fskatenews #eric bittle #figure skating

\--

**goldenbittles**

forever lol @ everyone screaming abt eric competing in the collegiate championships because it’s “beneath him” or “unfair on the other skaters” like,,, you do realise this is what the event is for, right? it’s meant to try and encourage competitive skaters to go to college (and to encourage competitive skaters to keep skating through college)

and personally, as someone with ties to the collegiate circuit, i’m delighted to see him attending. not to mention the rest of the college-level skaters who are – and this is probably the mildest i can put it – pretty fucking psyched to be meeting and skating against the olympic champion.

source: goldenbittles #still rolling my eyes at my dash #wank as far as the eye can see #and to the person who implied that eric shouldn’t be going to college in the first place because his skating will suffer… #fuck off #he’s not just an athlete he’s a person too #he’s entitled to an education just like everyone else

\--

**August 13, 2014**

Eric leans his head against the wall of the toilet stall, knees drawn up to his chest. His trainers squeak slightly against the edge of the toilet lid.

“No,” he says, “no, Mom – Mom it’s fine. It’s just a collegiate event.”

His palm is sweaty against the back of his phone case, fingers gripped just a bit too tight around it. His free hand fiddles absent-mindedly with the toilet paper dispenser. “No, I – I only asked because you can’t make it to Skate America – well, I might not get assigned Skate America next year, Mom. It’s up to the Skating Association. I don’t really get a say—no, Mom, I _understand._ Family is important.”

Eric doesn’t sigh. He tears off a little bit of toilet paper and rolls it into a tiny ball. “Well, Worlds are in Boston in a couple of years, so—yeah, I know it’s a long time away. I just thought – never mind.

“Yes, I know you’ll be cheering me on from home…” He drops his feet back onto the floor of the toilet stall. “Then why doesn’t he—no, Mom. I get it. Take care. I love you.”

Eric doesn’t realise his fingers are shaking until he tries to hit the button to hang up.

_Stop it,_ he tells himself. _Stop it. There’s no reason to cry. Stop it. You are nineteen years old. You have on Olympic Gold Medal. You are not this pitiful. Get over yourself._

He inhales, and exhales, and scrubs at his face. He stands up.

_It’s just a collegiate event,_ he tells himself. _It doesn’t matter._

Élodie is waiting for him outside the airport bathroom. She raises an eyebrow at the slight redness to his eyes, but thankfully says nothing.

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Aug 13   
Just arrived in Rochester for the Collegiate Championships! Looking forward to meeting the other skaters tomorrow!

\--

It is dark by the time they land in Detroit, the airport cast into stark illumination against the night sky. Eric isn’t tired – not precisely – but his muscles are cramping badly enough that he’s beginning to regret the morning skate he decided to risk before travel. He’ll have to stretch and soak before bed, or else he’ll pay doubly for it tomorrow.

And the day after, now that he thinks about it. And the day after that, too. God, how long has it been since he was scheduled for back to back skates? Not since Juniors, at the very least.

“No quads during warm-ups tomorrow,” Élodie says sharply, slipping in front of him to pull his baggage off the carousel. “Or during the exhibition.”

Eric scowls, but doesn’t argue.

The taxi journey to Rochester slips by in a moment. Eric spends the entire ride staring out the window, mind pleasantly distant from his senses. He’s left with impressions, more than anything – Élodie snapping at her phone in sour French, the darkness shifting in poorly defined shapes outside, the soft stench of smoke embedded into the leather of the car’s seats.

When they get to the hotel, Élodie deposits him in the lobby with their bags, and stalks over to the desk to check them in. Eric blinks in the warm lighting of the lobby, fingers fumbling around his phone as he pulls it out and checks his messages. He has a few, perfunctory good luck texts from various relatives – most of whom never really seemed to understand how good he was at his sport until they saw his face on the news at the Olympics – and a few twitter notifications. He thumbs out a generic message for social media, and scans the good luck wishes for anything more substantial.

_Good luck, Dickie!_

Mom. He stares at it for a long while, before he turns off his phone without replying.

“Here.”

Eric looks up just in time to accept the room key Élodie is thrusting at him.

“The hotel’s overbooked,” she says. “I’m sharing with one of the coaches here that I know. Remember to soak and stretch. I’ll know if you haven’t. Breakfast at seven sharp.”

“Okay,” Eric says.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Élodie says. “I’ll know if you do.”

“Okay,” Eric says.

Élodie frowns at him, but grabs her bag and walks away.

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Aug 14   
Shout out to the girl who asked her friend, “Are you SURE he’s the Olympic Champion?” when I tripped over my toe pick at morning practice.

\--

There’s no Kiss and Cry set up at the Rochester Ice Arena, so Eric finds out his score whilst sat on a wooden bench rink-side. He watches the numbers flash onto the digital display: 97.12, with a shockingly high program components score. It makes both Eric and Élodie frown.

“That’s…” Élodie bites her cheek for a moment, as if she’s considering her next words carefully. “That isn’t how I would have scored that program.”

It’s a surprisingly tactful way to say what both of them are thinking: he was over-scored. It makes something itch and burn in Eric’s stomach, the thought of him being handed something wonderful that he doesn’t deserve, that doesn’t really count.

“It’s fine,” he says.

Élodie exhales. “It’s unhelpful,” she corrects. “How are you supposed to learn, to improve, if they are scared to criticise you simply because you have a gold medal they don’t? Your axel was loose, your step sequence was miles away from a level four, and your positioning on your camel spin made my eyes water – but does this score show that? No, it doesn’t. You could go out there and skate without boots tomorrow, and they would happily give you gold.”

Eric stares at her. “They’re not inflating my scores because I’m Olympic Champion,” he says. He’s—yeah, you know what? He’s actually mildly offended at that suggestion.

Élodie raises a cool eyebrow. “Why else?”

“Because I’m one of the top skaters in the world and they’re not used to scoring people at that level?” Eric suggests. “Because everyone always ends up a little over-scored at domestic events?”

Élodie shakes her head, exhaling roughly. Eric bristles, but grits his teeth. He will not start a fight with his coach at a competition. He will not start a fight with his coach at a competition. He will not—

“Holy shit, you’re Eric Bittle.”

Eric finds a smile somewhere deep, deep within him. “That’s me,” he says. It comes out more wry than cheerful, but the guy in front of him doesn’t seem to notice.

Eric blinks. The _very_ attractive guy in front of him.

“I’m Miguel,” Very Attractive Guy says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to accost you, or anything. I’m just a bit starstruck. I didn’t know you were competing here. It’s a bit—well, it’s not exactly the Grand Prix Final, you know?”

“My college asked me to compete,” Eric answers, automatically falling back on the PR training Katya made him go through when it became clear he might end up at the Olympics. “I’m enjoying it, though. There’s nothing quite like the atmosphere at a domestic competition.”

Élodie sighs again, standing up. “Don’t forget your free skate is tomorrow,” she says, before she walks away.

Miguel watches her go. “Is that your new coach?”

“Yeah,” Eric says. “She’s…” _PR training, PR training, PR training._ “She’s pretty strict, but I need that sometimes.”

Something quirks at the corners of Miguel’s lips. “Do you now?”

Oh. _Oh._

Eric looks down at his boots, blades covered by bright purple skate guards, and he thinks, _Fuck it._

He remembers how it felt to lie in bed with Kent Parson’s eyes on him, and lets that self-same smirk bleed into his features. “Well,” he says. “Not always.”

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Aug 16   
Sometimes I wonder if I’m incapable of learning from my mistakes.

\--

Eric doesn’t let Miguel fuck him until after the competition is finished, exhibition skates and all. It’s… It’s kind of mediocre, to be honest.

Afterwards, they lie in bed, Miguel curled in close to his side, Eric’s arms wrapped around him loosely, and it just feels… awkward. But maybe that’s just Eric, his skin too tight and his brain too loud, stuck in this situation where he feels like he’s done something wrong.

“You were the reason I figured out I was gay, you know.”

Eric freezes. Miguel doesn’t notice.

“It was a couple of years ago, at Nationals. Your exhibition costume was more sheer than fabric, and when you entered a Biellmann, my brain just whited out.” Miguel chuckles a bit, and the sound vibrates through Eric. “I must have watched that video a thousand times. I guess you could call it a formative moment for me.”

Eric doesn’t move. He remembers that program. _Sweet Dreams_ , by Eurythmics – he’d loved that program, had even entertained vague ideas of keeping it as his exhibition into the next season, but with the Olympics… Well, it had just seemed too close to making a statement.

“I’m sorry, that’s probably a weird thing to tell someone,” Miguel says.

Eric doesn’t deny it.

The next morning, he drags himself out of bed before Miguel wakes up, and slinks back to his room in quiet shame. He doesn’t leave his number. He doesn’t leave anything.

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Aug 23   
Y’all are being so sweet wishing me good luck for Samwell. Today’s the day! I’m really excited!

\--

Less than a week after Eric stood at the top of the podium at the Collegiate Championships, he packs his things into boxes and suitcases and loads them into the back of Denis’s car. The drive from Boston to Samwell is a 40 minute exercise in one-sided conversation, as Denis chatters happily and Eric’s stomach twists in on itself.

There’s a dark red banner hung over the entrance to the campus. It reads, _A WARM WELLIE WELCOME TO SAMWELL!_ Eric grimaces at it.

Everything Eric remembers about high school is shrouded in an immutable cloud of misery.

He always used to feel ashamed of that, because it wasn’t—it was never _awful_. Coach kept his players in line for the most part – incident with the supply closet notwithstanding – and Eric had always been the kind of charming that teachers liked. Things could have been much, much worse than they were and yet, Eric could never bring himself to be grateful that they weren’t.

For the most part, he remembers the paranoia. It was like there was some sort of invisible line he always had to be aware of, that he was petrified of crossing, and it bled into everything he did. Was this music too much? Did this costume stray a little too far away from the norm? Had he been too enthusiastic in the Kiss and Cry? Had he not been enthusiastic enough?

For all YouTube told him that his sexuality didn’t define him, it was beginning to feel like it defined everything else.

That’s still there, that cloying, insidious fear of discovery. He’s tried to train it out of himself – hates who he is when he listens to those thoughts – but it’s never quite left him. You can take the boy out of Georgia, it seems, but you can’t take the boy out of his own head.

And he feels it now, peering over his shoulder and jackhammering through his veins, even as he carries box after box of his belongings into the athlete’s dorms of the queerest college in the US.

Halfway up the stairs, he passes two girls holding hands. The room next to him has a Pride sticker on the door. Someone is shouting out to ask where their mom put their favourite binder.

It makes Eric think of himself at fifteen, and the promise he was too much of a coward to keep.

It makes him think of a lot of things.


End file.
